


Holding On

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Impaired Judgment (and other excuses) [81]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 10:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18341600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: There’s nothing you can do when a goalie plays a perfect game.





	Holding On

There’s nothing you can do when a goalie plays a perfect game. And forget all that bullshit about there being no such thing as a perfect game: Saunders plays one. Or maybe he just plays a better game than they do, but they play a pretty fucking great one themselves. Every single aspect of it is fantastic, except for the small detail that they never score. That kind of precludes winning.

Jared feels numb when he gets off the ice, but it doesn’t last, gets replaced by the time they get to their tiny, cramped, ugly little room with something grit-tooth and furious. The Cup is in the building, and Jared can hear the crowd from the shitty fucking visitor’s room as he’s tearing off his gear. Jared doesn’t think he’s ever left a room so fast, barely showering off the sweat before he’s getting into street clothes, hair dripping, shirt sticking wetly to his chest as he walks right out the door. If anyone wants to talk to him, it can wait. He’s never been so grateful they didn’t offer him an A, the C. He didn’t want it in the first place, but now — he can’t face anyone right now, let alone the media. He’ll leave that to his linemates.

It’s too long a drive to leave for home right now, especially with minors on the team, so they’re stuck in Kennewick for the night. It’s a relief in some ways. The atmosphere on that bus would be oppressive — it still will be, in the morning, but everyone fresh off the loss, sitting in the dark — it’s probably a good thing they’re staying. Still, Jared would rather be anywhere but here, his stupid too small hotel room, in this stupid town that’s celebrating around him. They got one of the hotels closest to the Toyota Center for obvious reasons, but for equally obvious reasons, it fucking sucks to be there when people are still slowly streaming out of it, loudly cheerful with victory.

 _u can come to the mariot if u want to get away for a bit_ , Bryce texts about a half hour after Jared gets back to his room, a half hour he’s spent glowering at the wall so hard his eyes hurt. _but if u want to b by urself i totally get it obvs_

Jared isn’t exactly by himself, though — he’s got Sam, who’s exuding a ‘fuck off’ vibe, his back to Jared on his bed, facing the wall. Jared is at least fifty percent sure he’s crying right now. Jared can’t blame him, but it’s not exactly comfortable. Nothing’s comfortable right now, but being where Bryce is, someone who gets the feeling but isn’t mired in it as well — that sounds good, as good as anything can sound right now. No one’s got curfew anyway, not officially. They’ve got to head back early tomorrow morning, and Coach assumes, probably for good reason, that no one’s planning on going anywhere tonight. Hell, Jared isn’t even going anywhere, really — the Marriott’s literally across the street from the Garden Inn they’re staying at.

“I’ve got to — I’m going to see my family,” Jared says, which isn’t actually a lie. Jared figures if you agree to marry a guy, you agree to be his family, accept him as yours.

“Do what you’ve gotta do,” Sam says to the wall. His voice is thick. Jared ups the fifty percent chance he’s crying right now to eighty-five.

Jared hesitates. “Do you want to talk—”

“No,” Sam says, and Jared escapes, relieved.

Jared keeps his eyes down in the lobby of the Hilton, during the short walk over, in the lobby of the Marriott. A few guys did have family come down, especially the ones from BC — Jared thinks Rayshawn’s came all the way from northern Manitoba — so being recognised wouldn’t be unusual, and the last thing he wants to do is deal with some stranger trying to commiserate with him. Bryce texted him the room number, and Jared goes straight to it, the door opening almost before he’s finished knocking, like Bryce was waiting for him, even though Jared didn’t text back to say he was coming over. 

“Hey,” Bryce says, loose postured but mouth tight, and Jared walks right into his open arms, the door swinging shut behind him.

“Fuck the Americans,” Bryce says into Jared’s hair.

“I don’t want to talk about them,” Jared says.

“Sorry,” Bryce murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I just — I don’t want to think,” Jared says. “I don’t want to _feel_ like this.”

“I know,” Bryce says, soft. 

“Can we just—” Jared says, not quite sure what he’s asking for. Distraction. He needs to be distracted. 

“Whatever you need,” Bryce says, and Jared finds distraction, short-term at least, in Bryce’s hotel bed, in Bryce’s mouth and too gentle hands — but maybe not too gentle, because Jared aches everywhere. The flood of endorphins lasts a little while, but then Jared thinks about the flood of endorphins he would have got holding the Cup, the celebrating that would have happened, Coach turning a blind eye to the inevitable drinking — Gregory went out the evening they got there and bought a ton of booze with a fake ID. He’d get in major shit at the border check, so he’s probably going to have to toss it before they leave. That or a good portion of the team’s going to be miserable _and_ hungover tomorrow.

Jared thinks the way everyone would end up yelling in each other’s faces, half deaf, not even hearing each other, not caring, because they were sure they agreed. A different kind of endorphins. He wants that kind. Not that he doesn’t appreciate this — he just. He wants that kind.

“Hey,” Bryce says. “Come here.”

“I’m right beside you,” Jared says, but he doesn’t resist when Bryce pulls him in, Jared’s face tucked into where his neck meets his shoulder, somewhere he can hide from everything, try to keep the feelings at bay. It won’t last, he knows it won’t, it can’t last, but he breathes in, shaky, against Bryce’s skin, and he tries his best to push it back down.

He falls asleep at some point, must, because he wakes up to Bryce shaking his shoulder, murmuring, “Hey, it’s really late.”

“I don’t care,” Jared mumbles, pulling the pillow over his head when Bryce shakes again, harder. “Stop.”

“We fell asleep,” Bryce says. “It’s almost six in the morning. You gotta get up, babe.”

“Fuck,” Jared says, instantly wide-awake. “Okay, fuck. I’m up.”

He doesn’t have time to linger — team breakfast is at seven, and then they’re on the road for the long trip home. Plus, if he isn’t quick about it, Sam will already be up, and it’s probably weird to stay out with your family all night; it would seem weird to Jared if Sam did the same. He clings to Bryce a little before he leaves anyway, even if he can’t afford the time. 

“I’ll be home when you get back,” Bryce says. “The flight’s only two hours.”

“That sounds nice,” Jared says, forehead against his shoulder.

“I could get you a ticket—” Bryce says.

“No, you can’t,” Jared says, and Bryce is quiet, because offer or not, he knows Jared has to get on that bus. Failure bus. Bus of sadness. Bus of blame, likely as not, as the trip goes on, everyone simmering, remembering a missed pass, a turnover, a weak goal, deciding that was the nail in the coffin. Fun trip home. 

Jared’s just relieved that Sam’s a heavy sleeper, but then, that ends up being a completely moot point, because Sam’s watching TV when Jared comes in. He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, which probably isn’t a good sign.

“Hey,” Sam says dully, glancing over at him, eyes blood-shot and bleary.

“Did you sleep at all?” Jared asks.

“Not really,” Sam says. “Are you drunk?” 

“No,” Jared says. “Why would you even assume that?”

“I mean, it’s six am and you’re just getting in,” Sam says. “Are you high?”

“I fell asleep over there,” Jared says.

Sam gives him a very annoying sceptical look.

“I did,” Jared says defensively.

“Were you even out with your family, or was there some Hitmen thing I wasn’t invited to?” Sam asks, sounding hurt, and what’s Sam going to do if Jared tells him the truth, see a picture of Bryce in the stands, if it’s there, and immediately go ‘oh hey, my roommate _must_ be dating the Flames’ star player, damn that dude’s slumming’? 

“My boyfriend came down,” Jared says. The word fiancé is verboten until his parents know. Except with like. Chaz, Jared guesses. And Elaine. And both their agents. And Raf, when Jared had a moment of slight hysteria. His parents are going to be so fucking mad if they find out half a dozen people knew before them. Jared is not going to be volunteering that information. “I was with him. I just fell asleep there, for real.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “Cool.” It rings pretty hollow, but then, everything he’s saying does right now. Jared gets it. This fucking sucks for all of them, but the rookies, thinking their first WHL season might end with a Cup or two — Jared doesn’t think it sucks more for them, or anything, it just probably cuts in a slightly different way. Jared wouldn’t know. They were out a lot earlier, his rookie year. It hurt like burning then. It hurts like burning now. 

Breakfast is very quiet. No one really eats much. They’re on the road fifteen minutes before they were scheduled, which Jared guesses is good. Home fifteen minutes earlier. No one really wants to stay in this town. No one really wants to spend any more time with the people they’re sharing a bus with, not right now at least.

 _I really wanted it for you guys_ , Chaz texted, and it’s a little different than the rest of the consolation, commiseration texts Jared’s received, hasn’t answered, honestly stopped reading. Chaz knows most of the guys on this bus. He captained them. Jared imagines it would have been bittersweet for him for them to take it, missing it by just a year, but he knows Chaz wanted it for them anyway, not as bad as they did, but pretty close. 

Jared’s not as good a person as Chaz — he’s pretty sure if the Hitmen win the Chynoweth the year after he leaves, let alone the Mem, he’ll fucking throw something.

Jared swallows around a lump in his throat. _Me too_ , he texts back, puts his phone away, because he can’t deal with the missed calls, texts from his parents, grandma, Greg, even the text from Raf. 

His phone buzzes again, and he reluctantly pulls it out, relieved to see it’s from Bryce. _abt to board, nething u want for when u get home? food? booze? tricities jersey to burn?_

 _Just you_ , Jared texts back.

 _u got it_ , Bryce texts back, along with three hearts, and Jared smiles weakly at it before tucking his phone away again.

*

There is food when he gets home, he can smell it, but thankfully no Tri-Cities jersey in sight. Burning it would not be satisfying enough. Jared can’t think of what would be satisfying enough. Well, he can, but considering it’s something that became impossible last night, it’s probably best not to think about it. Not like he spent the entire trip home thinking about it or anything.

Bryce folds him into one of those giant hugs again, and Jared half wants to push his way out of it, because it makes him want to cry, half wants to hold on so tight Bryce can’t breathe, clinging until he finally starts feeling better, however long that’ll take. He settles for letting Bryce hug him, not letting himself hug back.

“I got pasta,” Bryce says. “And tons of garlic bread. Carbs are probably best right now.”

“I’m not really hungry,” Jared says.

“Did you eat on the bus?” Bryce asks.

Jared shrugs instead of saying no. 

“You’ve got to eat,” Bryce says.

“I’m not hungry,” Jared snaps, then, at Bryce’s slightly hurt face, “Sorry. I’m sorry, it’s not—”

“I get it,” Bryce says. “You know I get it. You still have to eat, Jared.”

“Yeah,” Jared says. He picks at the pasta at first, but finds himself finishing it when he thought he wouldn’t. The pit in his stomach wasn’t hunger, he knows, because it’s still there, but. It’s not like starving himself helps, especially when he’s already lost so much mass in the playoffs, needs to put on so much during the offseason if he wants to be NHL ready.

“I got white wine,” Bryce says, a little tentatively. “And soda water. It’s in the fridge, if you wanted like, a spritzer. Or, you know, there’s — just let me know if you want it.”

Drinking while he’s upset probably isn’t a good idea. “Can we just go to bed?” Jared asks. It’s ridiculously early for it, and there’s no way Bryce will be able to sleep — Jared might, Jared has a lot of exhaustion to sleep off — but Bryce agrees anyway. They undress in the half dim room — it’s not even dark out yet, this is honestly pathetic — and get in bed, and Jared can’t usually sleep when they’re touching everywhere, but he’s even more tired than he thought, because he falls asleep with Bryce’s arms tight around him.

Jared wakes up at one point, Bryce sitting up in bed beside him, doing something on his phone.

“Time’s it?” Jared mumbles.

“Like, ten pm,” Bryce says, looking over. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Jared says, reaching out for the nearest part of Bryce — his hip — and Bryce takes a hand off his phone, squeezes Jared’s hand before releasing it. He’s asleep beside Jared when Jared wakes up next, early morning light filtering through the curtains, mouth soft, lashes dusting his cheeks. Jared presses a kiss to his forehead and lets him sleep, going to take a stingingly hot shower — then a less stingingly hot shower, because hot water might be nice on sore muscles, but it’s hell on cuts and bruises. 

He goes through his phone over coffee, because he thinks he can handle the messages now, the sympathy and commiseration. Maybe he was wrong; he finds his eyes stinging a lot, especially at one from his dad, a simple _I’m so proud of you, Jared_ that hurts worse than any of the ‘I’m sorry’s, because what’s there to be proud of? He lost. They all lost. They did their best and they lost anyway, and it’s—

“Fuck,” Jared says, under his breath, then, when it doesn’t dislodge that sticking, ugly thing sitting in his windpipe, louder. Chokes on the word, but it comes out loud anyway, he guesses, because Bryce shows up in the hallway a few seconds later, hair sticking up in the back.

“Sorry for waking you up,” Jared mumbles.

“Don’t be sorry,” Bryce says. “Offer to get you an Americans jersey to burn is still open; I can probably get same day delivery.”

Jared can’t even muster a smile, though he tries to.

“Or whatever you need,” Bryce says.

“I just want to—” Jared says, doesn’t know. Stop grieving? It’s not like someone died. He’s sure most people would roll their eyes at that, say ‘it’s just hockey’. And it is just hockey, but hockey’s almost everything to him, was everything to him for most of his life. “I just want to stop—” 

“Hurting?” Bryce says, and Jared couldn’t manage the word, but he can manage the nod. “You will.”

Jared knows he will. He wants to stop hurting _now_ , though, and he doesn’t think that’s in the cards.

“I just—” Jared says, chokes on it again, and when Bryce comes to the table, wraps his arms around him, Jared holds on with shaking hands, just as tight as he needs to right now, and Bryce doesn’t say a word of complaint, even though it can’t be comfortable, even though it must hurt.


End file.
